


August 2016

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: Collection of 365 ficlets for the month of August.





	1. Two-Hundred Fourteen: Asphyxiate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish I had strangled you to death when I had the chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say that the line was from Fatal Frame 2, but I can't remember, so...

“I wish I had strangled you to death when I had the chance.”

But now they’re here. They’re here, with Sam whispering these sweet nothings into the hollow of his throat with blood on his tongue and ice in his veins. And Dean shivers; he remembers the feeling of Sam’s hands on his throat when they were trying to end things for good, the flutter-thrum of his pulse under the pressure of his brother’s fingers. It’s almost there now, and he’s hungry for it; feels the ghost of fingertips against his collarbones and whimpers, low and needy.

Sam could’ve killed him back then, if he hadn’t chickened out. Dean was past the point of fighting when his reason for staying alive had pinned him to the floor and started on the deadly force, and in hindsight he thinks maybe it’d have been better that way. Better to cut this broken thing off at the source before it’d been given the chance to flourish and grow into the twisted mess that surrounds them now.

Sam’s fingernails bite into his skin and Dean just closes his eyes and breathes. He sucks air into his lungs while it’s still a freedom he’s being granted; tastes sulphur at the back of his throat and pretends it’s the cinnamon sunshine he’s used to.

 _“Long live the Boy King,”_  they say now, and Dean thinks that Sam’s right, after all. Should’ve killed him when he had the chance.

Now he’s just left aching for those fingers to be wrapped around his throat once more, and to finally finish what they started. Maybe if he’s lucky, it’ll happen today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	2. Two-Hundred Fifteen: Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Dean treats his little brother like he’s broken, and he hates himself for it whenever it comes to his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is very important and Dean loves him a lot.

Sometimes, Dean treats his little brother like he’s broken, and he hates himself for it whenever it comes to his attention.

Sam is a shattered mind, stitched back together with a gentle hand and a point of focus that anchors his reality. He’s a body that’s been battered and beaten and bruised only to heal and mend and grow, each and every time. He’s a fractured soul, pulled apart into two separate people and forced under mind-numbing torture, only to curl in tight and return to its functional state.

Sam is fragile. Sam is cracked porcelain; run through with fissures that paint tales of blood and family and sacrifice. Dean thinks, perhaps, that he is the molten gold sealing those cracks together; bringing something almost whole to a place so badly damaged and trying to return its beauty.

But still, Sam continues on. He continues to fight, and live, and love, and  _be_. He heals and cracks and patches himself up all over again in an endless cycle of hurt, and it’s all Dean can do to watch in awe as his brother  _exists_  in such a state of his own, unbreakable and untouchable and unimaginably strong.

Sam is so, so fragile, but  _God_ , is he ever strong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Two-Hundred Sixteen: Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s never fallen asleep cold, but ever since Sam left him behind in favour of running off to school, it always seems to feel that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny dabble in a Pokemon AU.

Dean’s never fallen asleep cold, but ever since Sam left him behind in favour of running off to school, it always seems to feel that way. Ember curls around him every night, a constant source of warmth and comfort, but even his lifelong companion can’t quite fill the gap left by his brother’s absence.

“I just miss him,” he says quietly, turning his head to bury his face in scratchy-soft fur. His Arcanine has long since outgrown him, and makes even the king-sized bed he’s booked for the night a bit of a tight squeeze. “I don’t know why he left.”

Dean does, really. They both do; he’s not the only one feeling the loss and the gentle press of a warm muzzle to his cheek is enough of a comfort for now. He just sighs and closes his eyes, letting her heartbeat soothe him for now.

“I miss him,” he whispers again, and Ember gives a soft rumble. They both get quiet after that, and it’s all he can do to try to fall asleep.

Ember’s warm where she’s pressed against him, but deep inside, Dean still feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Two-Hundred Seventeen: Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fog is thick this morning, and Dean starts to wonder if it’s even worth having made the trek to the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by some pretty scenery.

The fog is thick this morning, and Dean starts to wonder if it’s even worth having made the trek to the lake. They’d barely been able to see fifty feet down the road before sunrise, and as they find the parting in the trees, he can only hope they get something worthwhile. Sam’s been begging him to go watch the sunrise for weeks, and he’d hate to have rolled the kid out of bed so early for nothing.

“Is this it?” Sam asks, voice hushed to arch the rest of the world. Every breath emphasizes the cloud they’re walking through, and as Dean finds the end of the path to step out into the clearing by the beach, he glances back to see his brother running his fingers through his hair to get it out of his face. “We’re here?”

“Should be.” Dean breathes in a lungful of moisture and turns back towards the clearing. No turning back now. “C'mon, let’s go.”

He steps out onto the gravel beach and finds himself squinting. Sam’s the one who verbalizes it first, a soft “wow” as they both start towards the lone dock, transfixed by the sight.

Fog rolls over the water’s surface in a thin mist, dancing with the breeze in senseless patterns. It’s caught in rays of filtered sunshine; the light is barely peeking through the thick blanket of mist, but it’s there, softened and spread out wide with the little bubble they’ve been sealed inside. There’s no clear horizon line, and the sky blends seamlessly into the water’s surface, leaving the impression of an empty eternity just past the end of the old dock. Beautiful and sort of terrifying, in its illusion, and Dean’s left with gently parted lips, following his brother until they can sit down at the water’s edge.

“Wow,” Sam whispers again, and maybe he doesn’t realize, but he’s reaching out, fingertips searching for the horizon his eyes can’t see. “Is it always like this?”

Dean shakes his head slowly and leans back on his hands. This won’t last long; the sun will but away the rest of the fog soon enough, and they’ll be left in the usual heavy heat of summer mornings. “Nah,” he murmurs. “I think we just got lucky.”

Isn’t very often he gets to say that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Two-Hundred Eighteen: Rationality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hospital room is quiet, regardless of the chaos that rules the world outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An itty-bitty thing from the start of season nine.

The hospital room is quiet, regardless of the chaos that rules the world outside. There seems to exist a barrier between the two spaces; one that keeps the two of them safe from the war surely bubbling under the surface of the everyday world. Angels, demons, hunters- it’s a damn mess, and Dean is almost thankful for this moment of silence.

It’s come at a steep price, though, with his little brother unconscious in bed, breathing through a tube and fighting for his life. There’s nothing the doctors can do, not when the damage is so deeply internal and incorporeal as what the trials have done to Sam. It’s a matter of hours, maybe, and he’s running out of options.

For a few seconds, Dean breathes. He drinks in the eye of this storm and he tries to think like a rational human being about how he can fix this. He needs to fix this.

(Rationality has never been his strong suit, when it comes to Sam.)


	6. Two-Hundred Nineteen: Ten Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s alone, for those precious few seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary immediately after making her deal.

She’s alone, for those precious few seconds. She’s alone with her father’s body still leaking blood and her boyfriend unconscious in her arms, quiet and still, but alive. Dean has vanished, and she doesn’t have the capacity to wonder about him anymore.

It still sounds too good to be true. Demons are rare, but the lore is virtually endless; how they’ll offer a person the entire world on a silver platter for the steep price of their eternal soul. Mary thinks, for a moment, that she’d have handed that over, if the demon had asked. Thinks that it isn’t fair for John to be hurt by the world she’s a part of, to be dragging into it only to lose his life so brutally. Even if the demon had wanted everything she’d had to give- ten years, five years; she wouldn’t have hesitated to save his life.

But now- now she’s left with a promise. Ten years on this day, and he’ll pay her a visit. She doesn’t know why, and she can’t imagine it’ll be anything good, but…

But it’s ten years. Ten years of John being alive, where otherwise he’d have been six feet underground. Ten years to escape this life and start the family she’s always wanted; to be happy and safe with the man she loves. Ten years to learn more about demons and search for loopholes and find a way out of this deal.

Ten years. She has ten whole years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Two-Hundred Twenty: List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn’t keep a journal the way his father did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean keeps a list of all the people he's lost.

Dean doesn’t keep a journal the way his father did. Besides updating old entries about different monsters, that’s nothing more than a relic now; a memory of years and hunts past. He doesn’t record every day in meticulous detail, and he doesn’t make note of every person he meets, or every city he visits.

He does keep track, though.

His book is small, black leather with a nondescript cover that fits into the back pocket of his jeans. It’s old and weathered, but well cared-for, lest he lose the information inside. Not that he could ever really hope to forget.

_Mom. Demon. November 2nd, 1983._

It’s really nothing more than a list, but it carries the weight of every failure Dean had ever experienced.

_Joanna Parker. Poltergeist. January 28th, 1989._

Every fumble, every hesitation. Every time he was too late or too slow or just not good enough to do his damn job.

_Steven Johansen. Werewolf. October 15th, 1992._

It’s a long list, and it’s gotten longer over the years. Gets a little longer with every single hunt and every lost life; every person he could’ve saved. Every person that could’ve had a future if only he’d been a little better at what he does.

_Lacey Hunt. Vengeful spirit. June 22nd, 1998._

He flips through the book every time he adds a new name.  _Sammy_  is always in red ink and Dean thinks there’s something a little poetic about it, or maybe there’s something a little wrong with the way his brain works.  _Castiel_  gets blue. Most of the names are written in black, stark and bold on the white pages. They stand out the way they should; ink staining clean paper until it’s left a permanent mark. Something irreversible and damning.

_Joey Di Sango. Shtriga. 1988._

There are days he thinks about throwing it out.

_Izzy Bilzer. Shtriga. 1988._

Days he thinks it might be better with flames licking at the pages, blurring together paper and ink in a blinding heat until it all burns away into unrecognizable ashes.

_Sarah Shapovalov. Shtriga. 1988._

Days he hopes and prays to just forget. To wipe every last name from his memory for good and just fucking forget.

_Shtriga._

_Shtriga._

_Shtriga._

But mostly, there are days when Dean knows that he doesn’t deserve that.

And so he writes the names in his little book, friends and family and innocent strangers. A hundred people he’s failed to save; a thousand who he’s failed. An ever-growing list of every mistake he’s ever made and it weighs his down more than any list ever should.

He carries on keeping it, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. Two-Hundred Twenty-One: Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary can’t take her eyes off the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John proposes before everything falls apart.

Mary can’t take her eyes off the window. Someone’s been watching them; she’s sure of it and the longer it goes on, the more it gets to her. She can barely even focus on what John’s saying or the milkshake that’s slowly melting in the tall glass in front of her. Another movement at the edge of her vision and she can’t stand it anymore, turning to face her boyfriend properly and starting to move. “I’m sorry, John, I’ll just be right back. I need to step out for a second.”

And she thinks it’ll be that easy right up until he catches her wrist in the circle of his fingers. It’s hard, like it always is, to let him hold her like that. “Mary, hold on, can we- can it just wait for one second? There’s something I’ve gotta ask you.”

She opens her mouth to insist she’ll be quick- it’s probably nothing; she knows she tends to see things in the dark that aren’t there, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry- but then she sees the look in his eyes. It’s something soft and nearly vulnerable; something that’s innocent in a way she was never allowed to be. It’s something  _good_ , something that had helped draw her towards John to begin with, and it’s got her hesitating. It seems to be the only excuse he needs.

“Mary,” he says again, a little softer and a little clearer like he’s been rehearsing. “This is, uh- I feel like this has been coming for a long time. I know we’ve had our ups and downs-” He laughs at that, an embarrassed little chuckle like he’s remembering all the silly fights that linger in the back of Mary’s mind, too- “but- but we’ve made it through. And I think we’re pretty okay, all things considered, right?”

“John…” And she’s smiling, despite herself, as his hand slips down from her wrist so their fingers can tangle together. “Where’s this going?”

“Right.” He smiles, too, sheepish, and then he’s reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket. “I’m supposed to go down on one knee, right?”

The little ring box has Mary’s heart stuttering in her chest, and she can’t breathe for a moment as John does just exactly that. They’re attracting attention, now, drawing what few eyes are in this tiny diner to the little scene they’re making, but Mary can’t bring herself to care. “You know I’m no good at this, Mary, but I love you. I’ll always love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you come Hell or high water. So-” He pauses to flip open the box’s lid and reveal the ring inside, traditional gold with a diamond inlaid, and Mary feels tears burning in her eyes. “Mary Campbell, will you marry me?”

And Mary looks at him- looks at the man she loves and the life he represents; the normal, safe life she’s always sought. She thinks about having a future that doesn’t end in a bloody, messy death. Having a home, a husband, a  _family._

She’s always wanted to have a family.

“Yes.” And her voice cracks, and she’s trembling, but John smiles as big as she’s ever seen and he hops to his feet just to sweep her up in his arms. The ring fits just like it’s supposed to and John doesn’t stop holding her hand for the rest of the night.

(A man named Dean comes into her life a few hours later, and things don’t seem quite so perfect as they did.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	9. Two-Hundred Twenty-Two: Braid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pull the left one over the middle, then the right,” Jess instructs him softly. “And take a little extra hair with your pinkie. Make sure to pull it tight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft SamJess.

“Pull the left one over the middle, then the right,” Jess instructs him softly. “And take a little extra hair with your pinkie. Make sure to pull it tight.”

Sam nods distractedly because all of his focus is on the French braid he’s working into her hair. He’s gotten better at this recently, and it’s a lot neater than his initial attempts. Not as good as when Jess does them herself, but he’s improving. “Tell me if I pull too hard.”

“You won’t.” She sounds confident, sighs happily as she leans back against the couch. She’s sitting on the floor between Sam’s legs while they half-watch a movie together, lazy and comfortable. “This is nice.”

Sam hums his response and lets his tongue poke out between his lips in concentration as he weaves Jess’ hair together. It’s soft between his fingers and he just wants to stay like this, hands in her hair and a smile on her face. He leans forward for a moment just to press a tiny kiss to her shoulder before straightening once more. “Yeah. It is.”

It’s a quiet Friday night, and this is all there is right now. It’s peaceful and familiar and an almost-routine that he’s more than happy to settle into. It’s better and softer and safer than anything he’s had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	10. Two-Hundred Twenty-Three: Pink and Satiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pink and satiny. The only thing missing, really, is Rhonda, but she’s far in the rear-view mirror now as Dean slides the panties up over his hips, taking his sweet time to enjoy every second of the smooth material moving over his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wincesty and soft. Dean deserves nice things.

Pink and satiny. The only thing missing, really, is Rhonda, but she’s far in the rear-view mirror now as Dean slides the panties up over his hips, taking his sweet time to enjoy every second of the smooth material moving over his skin. It takes a couple careful adjustments to get everything lined up correctly (the satin against his cock has him shivering; he’s not quite hard, but it wouldn’t take much), but then he’s there, smoothing everything out and breathing out a quick exhale.

He meets his own eyes in the bathroom’s full-length mirror, and for once, he lets himself take a good, long look. He’s not as toned as he used to be; time has started catching up with him, and he’s a little rounded than he was at nineteen. A little more scarred, physically and otherwise. Weathered and worn between that night with Rhonda and this moment, here and now, in his own bathroom, somewhere that’s safe and sound.

He lets his fingertips slip over the hem of the panties, and he smiles.

Sam knocks before he opens the door, and Dean stays quiet as his brother steps inside. He can see Sam in his peripherals, reflected in the mirror, but chooses to close his eyes when he gets close. Warm arms slide around his middle, Sam’s shirt soft against Dean’s skin where they’re pressed together. Lips against the curve of his neck and he leans closer, content.

“You should wear these more often,” Sam tells him all soft. Sam’s fingertips gently skim the outlines of the panties, and Dean expects a dozen things. “They make you look good,” or “I like the way you look in them,” maybe. Sam presses an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s shoulder and hugs him a little tighter and says, instead, “they make you happy.”

They’re both quiet after that. Dean keeps them on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	11. Two-Hundred Twenty-Four: Quiet Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole world is muted, painted in dull colours and muffled sounds that filter in through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quiet and soft brothers.

The whole world is muted, painted in dull colours and muffled sounds that filter in through the window. It’s sleepy and cool, with a steady rain falling outside and thin slices of moonlight illuminating the room where they’re filtered through the glass.

They’re in that tired limbo between hunts, muscles still aching from the last job and too busy recuperating to find a new one. Sam is sleeping, clean and soft, his dirty blood-and-gunpowder clothes piled in the corner of the room while Dean watches over him. It’s quiet and peaceful, and he turns his eyes to the window once more, where droplets of rain race each other to the pane below.

Sam’s breathing matches the gentle drumming on the roof, and Dean closes his eyes to listen. He’s sitting up, still, on the other bed, but he thinks he could fall asleep here. Listen to his little brother being alive in the thousandth motel in their endless string of uprooted lives and settle, right here. Forget about the world for a few minutes and rest.

He breathes out slow and slips down the bed until he’s properly horizontal. He turns into his side and shuffles around, outstretches one arm like always in case Sam needs him; they’re grown adults and it still comes natural as breathing. He settles in and breathes out slow, tasting rain and gunpowder at the back of his mouth and trying to relax.

Soon, he sleeps, and that’s enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Two-Hundred Twenty-Five: Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re an unfamiliar weight on his nose, and he can’t stop touching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a pair of glasses.

They’re an unfamiliar weight on his nose, and he can’t stop touching them. Thick-framed, rectangular lenses that are starting to give him a headache, and Dean scrunches up his nose.

“I think they look cute,” Sam tells him from across the room without looking up from his book. “And, I mean, c'mon, it’s gotta be nice to see for once, right?”

The world is, as promised, frustratingly clear now. Dean can pick out individual hairs on his brother’s head and make sense of his face where it used to be an incoherent blur. He huffs and shoves at the nose piece, anyways. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t need the glasses to know that Sam is rolling his eyes.

They fall quiet again, and headache aside, Dean doesn’t take them off. He soon finds himself staring; it’s a whole new experience being able to see Sam like this without being physically inches away from him, and it’s kind of nice to appreciate the details from a distance. “I can see your mole.”

Sam makes a face, and Dean grins with the fact that he’s got full coverage of the wrinkle in his brother’s forehead. “Shut up.”

Dean just grins a little better and winks. He figures Sam will feel that even if he isn’t looking. “I think it’s cute.”

There’s something deeply satisfying about the full view of Sam’s dramatic sigh and page-turn, and Dean can’t stop smiling. It’s nice being able to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	13. Two-Hundred Twenty-Six: Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is, in fact, an incredible freedom in having nothing left to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember who the quote is from, but it made me emo about Mystery Spot.

There is, in fact, an incredible freedom in having nothing left to lose. Sam feels it every single day when he wakes up; even without his alarm set, that damn song loops in the back of his head like an never-ending reminder of the mission he’s set out for himself over the past several months. It’s a routine set in stone between hunting Dean’s killer and going through the motions to keep himself alive. He knows he’s being reckless, and he knows he’s being stupid, but then there’s that freedom, too; the sense that there’s nothing else he can possibly do wrong. Nothing else at stake besides his own worthless life.

It’s what pushes him to work longer, take more risks. To sleep what few hours are necessary to function and eat only when his body demands it (to order two meals, as well, regardless of his dwindling monetary resources. He knows how to be hungry). Every skipped meal and every close call gives him a few seconds of bliss and of almost-enough, and maybe that’s what leads him to keep risking it all.

He thinks maybe that Dean is past the point of saving, but then, that sort of makes them a matching pair, doesn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	14. Two-Hundred Twenty-Seven: Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean toddles into his baby brother’s room late in the night, rubbing his eyes with one hand while he drags along his stuffed kitty under his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever look at something you wrote two years ago and just. What the fuck, @me.
> 
> MCD. Like a BIG MCD. Baby Winchesters.

Dean toddles into his baby brother’s room late in the night, rubbing his eyes with one hand while he drags along his stuffed kitty under his arm. He always sleeps better next to Sammy, and he knows that Momma and Daddy need to get their rest, too. It’s dark except for the moonlight pouring in between the blinds and the little nightlight by the door, but Dean doesn’t let it scare him as he tip-toes inside.

He’s got to stretch up on his toes to reach the little latch to slide the side of the crib down, tongue poking out between his lips in concentration. It’s real quiet, just the creaking of the floorboards under his feet and the muffled slide of wood on wood when he manages to get the little opening down.

“Hiya, Sammy,” he whispers, ‘cause Sammy’s probably asleep and Dean doesn’t want to disturb him. “Cuddle?”

He’s met with silence, so he just grabs his kitty and climbs up carefully, settling on the little pad alongside Sammy’s prone form and curling around him with care. It takes him a moment to get settled, making sure he’s between Sammy and the gap in the crib’s bars and that his kitty is comfortable under his arm, but as soon as he stops moving, he realizes that something is wrong.

Sammy is very, very quiet.

“Sammy?” Dean whispers again, putting a hesitant hand on his brother’s tiny arm. He doesn’t get a response, and there’s something unsettling about the way Sammy feels under his touch. Tears prickle at Dean’s eyes against his will as he sits up, kitty falling to her side in his lap as he tries to get Sammy’s attention. “Sammy!”

Sammy doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t move. It takes Dean too long to realize what’s wrong, and his breath hitches hard around a panicked sob when he figures it out.

“You- you gotta breathe, Sammy,” he whispers desperately, rolling his brother onto his back and watching in horrified distress as Sammy’s arms fall limp to his sides. His lips are parted slightly, tinted faintly blue in the low light, and his eyes are closed. His fingers are half-curled and Dean doesn’t think he can breathe, either. “You- you gotta, you gotta b-breathe, Sammy, c'mon-”

He’s got his little hands pressed to Sammy’s chest like he can will the air into his brother, and he realizes with a sick feeling of dread that there’s no thump-thump, either. A complete lack of the warm, comforting sound that usually lulls Dean to sleep on nights like this. He presses a little harder and he whimpers and he’s crying, now, tears dripping down his cheeks and off the end of his nose only to land on Sammy’s perfectly still features.

“Dean?”

Momma sounds tired and confused and worried, but Dean can’t even look up. He’s too busy shaking his little brother, trying to get some warmth and breath and life back into Sammy’s tiny body, and he’s still there when she reaches the crib. When she gasps and reaches out and scoops Dean up in her arms and screams  _“John!”_

Dean just watches his brother, still and quiet in his crib. He feels sort of numb, and he can’t breathe right, either.

Sammy doesn’t wake up. Dean isn’t the only one who cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	15. Two-Hundred Twenty-Eight: Charade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than anything else, Sam likes to watch his brother sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulless!Sam and Wincesty stuff.

More than anything else, Sam likes to watch his brother sleep. It’s easier these days, since he doesn’t much need to close his eyes anymore, and Dean hasn’t noticed yet. He’ll settle down in his own bed, put on a good show, make sure Dean’s good and out before he gets up again, bare feet on the twenty-four inches of carpet between between their beds until he can settle down and observe.

Dean’s real pretty when he sleeps, and real quiet. His face goes all soft, and his lips part in a pink “o” that has Sam wanting to get closer and touch. He doesn’t do that, though. Not yet, at least. It’ll take time to work his way up to that, and Sam just happens to have all the time in the world.

It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that Dean can be so oblivious. He’s got a real soft spot for his baby brother Sammy, and Sam’s more than happy to hold onto that, smile big and bashful and hide behind his bangs to keep up the charade. Dean eats it up, and Sam thinks that even if he suspected something was off, maybe he wouldn’t do anything. Maybe he’d cling to the picture he wants to see.

Dean will be his, soon. It’s as sure as the tainted blood that pumps through Sam’s veins, and as he settles next to his big brother for another night of quiet coveting, he smiles. Reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers over the pretty pink of Dean’s lips.

All things wicked start from innocence, and Sam knows that Dean will be just as wicked as him one day soon. It’s only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	16. Two-Hundred Twenty-Nine: Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean was always the end goal, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serial killer Sam. MCD warning and like. General. Blood. Stuff.

Dean was always the end goal, he thinks.

Sam’s been seeking out his little trophies as long as he can remember. It’s always felt easy as breathing to smile all shy and lure men and women along with him- to find his mother, to get directions, and later, to join him in bed. He’s good at that; controlling people. They’re always eager to listen when he puts on the right act.

The killing has grown into a habit, too. A hunger, really; he’s had a taste for human blood from the very first time he took a life, and it’s only grown with the passing years. Somewhere between childhood and his college years, Sam got good at this, and- well, maybe more importantly, he also got picky.

He’d started looking for freckles, first. Then the dirty blond; the green eyes. Took him half his life to figure out who he was looking for, while his brother stuck by his side, soft and hard and quiet and loud and completely, entirely oblivious. He’s only ever looked for the best in Sam.

In the end, that was probably his downfall.

Dean looks good in red. Real pretty; glassy green eyes that no longer see and plush pink lips that stain crimson. Sam can’t stop looking at him, ignoring the knife wounds in his stomach in favour of stroking his fingertips over Dean’s features, feeling the adrenaline in his veins and the beating of his heart, just the same as always.

There’s always a high after a kill. This is no different, really, except that- except that as his heartbeat slows and his breathing evens out and as Dean stays perfectly still, it becomes different.

The elation he had felt- the rush of control and power; the totality of taking a life- slowly starts to fade, and in its place grows an undeniable sense of emptiness. Sam looks at his perfect, pretty big brother, and he traces out the absence of life in Dean’s body, and it. Hurts.

His fingers still on the curve of Dean’s cheek, and his chest aches deep and hard. He doesn’t like this.

What is left for him in this world if not Dean? For all his ignorance, wilful or otherwise, he is all Sam has. All Sam has ever had; his sun and moon and the entirety of his universe. Sam’s hands start to shake as the reality of what he’s done slowly starts to sink in, and his heart speeds up into a stutter-step nothing like the high he’d experienced moments before.

Dean is dead, and there is nothing left here. Not a damn thing to anchor Sam to this world.

The hilt of the knife is blood-tacky in his hand, and Sam exhales hard.

He goes out just the same way his brother did: slow and bloody and painful. His tears aren’t near as pretty as Dean’s.

Maybe this is what justice is supposed to be, in a poetic kinda way. Sam’s never much bothered with it before now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	17. Two-Hundred Thirty: Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is very soft, and he is very quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SamJess soft things.

Sam is very soft, and he is very quiet. He’s got a big presence and a warm smile and gentle hands, and he curls his shoulders in sometimes like he wants to make himself small, and Jess loves him so, so much.

Sam is safe in a way that no one else has ever been. The first time he holds her hand, his fingers wrap around hers and it’s like the world can’t do a damn thing to either of them. She feels invincible at his side; more so when she’s tucked up right under his arm- not very many people make Jess feel small, but Sam’s got it down to an art. 

“What are you most afraid of?” she whispers to him one night. They’re in her bed and Sam’s arms are a shield around her body, and she listens to the beats of his heart under her ear. She thinks that he might even be asleep, but his grip on her tightens a little and his nose brushes through her hair and she just listens to him breathe for those long few seconds.

“Losing you,” he whispers back, a thousand secrets buried in the words. He’s quiet, and he’s a mystery, and Jess thinks she’ll never learn all there is to know about Sam Winchester. “I can’t lose you.”

Jess curls her fingers gently against his skin and closes her eyes, nothing waiting at the backs of her eyelids except blessed darkness and the warm shivers that Sam’s touch send down her spine.

She doesn’t think she can stand to lose him, either. Not someone so quiet and soft and  _good._

Not someone who is finally,  _finally_ safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	18. Two-Hundred Thirty-One: Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about Purgatory is that it’s wholly, crushingly lonely. Dean’s never been very good at being alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purgatory and stuff.

The thing about Purgatory is that it’s wholly, crushingly  _lonely._ Dean’s never been very good at being alone.

He’s  _been_ alone before, sure. Those couple years while Sam was at school. Those couple hours while Sam was dead and gone. Those couple decades in Hell- really, it’s all those times he’s been away from his brother. They all sit heavy on his chest; scars on his heart that dig in deep until he can’t breathe whenever Sam walks away. An endless build-up of abandonment issues and deep-seated anxiety; everyone he’s ever loved has left him, so what’s to stop Sam from leaving him behind for good?

But Purgatory- Purgatory is different.

Most times, he doesn’t have the breath to spare for missing his brother. Sam is a whole plane of existence away, and Dean’s focus is entirely on staying alive, finding Castiel, and getting them both out. Mostly the former; he knows the angel can handle himself, for the most part, but there are plenty of monsters here who’d be happy to see a Winchester dead. Most times, he’s busy fighting for his life, and between his bloody knuckles and his racing heart, there’s not much room for anything else.

It’s the quiet moments that scatter the combat, in the end. Those are the ones that get him. The moments when he’s by himself, tucked against the base of a tree trying to lick his wounds and catch his breath; when the absolute  _absence_ of Sam hits him hard in the chest and makes it seem horribly, wretchedly impossible that he’s even alive without his other half. Sam isn’t here to bandage his wounds or stitch his skin back together or taste the blood on his lips. He isn’t here to tell Dean to  _“stop bein’ a baby,”_  and he isn’t here to hold Dean’s hand when it hurts, anyways. 

Sam isn’t  _here_ , and Dean breathes out hard and closes his eyes and rests his head back against the trunk of the tree. A small, ever-louder part of him thinks that maybe he should just stay here until the next monster to wander by has the decency to finish him off. 

If he’s already in this hell of an afterlife, then where will he go when it finally ends?

With nothing anchoring him to a land of breathing and heartbeats, it’s entirely too enticing to let himself find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. Two-Hundred Thirty-Two: Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi,” Dean mumbles in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets ready for his first day of school.

“Hi,” Dean mumbles in the mirror. He can’t quite meet his own reflection’s eyes, gripping at the bottom of his shirt and twisting it nervously in his hands. “I’m Dean. I’m… Dean. Hi, my name is Dean.”

He’s five years old and it’s his first day of kindergarten; the first time he’s ever going to go to school. His parents are excited, and Sammy seems curious, and Dean- Dean’s anxious. Dean’s nervous and scared to be all by himself in a strange place with strange people, so he’s practising. Practise makes perfect, says his daddy.

“Hi,” he whispers again, peeking up at himself. “I’m Dean.”

“Hi, Dean.” He just about jumps out of his skin, scrambling back from the mirror with big eyes until he spots his momma in the space behind him, smiling all soft. He starts to relax and then she’s scooping him up in her arms for a hug. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Dean can’t help but giggle as she leans in to press a couple kisses to his cheek. “Momma! The kids aren’t gonna kiss me!”

“Nope, that’s just my job.” She gives him a little wink and hugs him tighter. “Even if all the girls want to, you’re all mine.”

Just like that, Dean’s nerves have melted away, as he clings to his momma and listens to her voice and laughter. She’s warm and soothing in a way nothing else is, and it’s impossible to wipe the smile off his face.

“You’re gonna be okay, baby,” she coos while she holds him there, rocking him in her arms. Dean closes his eyes and nuzzles her shoulder. “You’re gonna do so well.”

When he feels this safe, it’s easy to believe everything she has to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	20. Two-Hundred Thirty-Three: Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever his dad mentions the fire, Sam stays real quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "Sam and John lead a normal life after the death of Mary and Dean? But Sam's convinced that he has to save his father, kill the monsters... And ghost Dean is "helping" him out with that qwq"
> 
> Just a tiny dabble into a neat idea.

Whenever his dad mentions the fire, Sam stays real quiet. He’ll look away and bite his tongue and let his eyes settle on the form beside him, flickering and blurred, sometimes, but as real as anything ever gets.

“You were too young to know them,” John will murmur, sounding heavy and a little choked-up. “But they… they loved you so much, Sam. Your mom and Dean, both.”

That’s usually when Dean comes up close to his side, shiver-cold where his lips brush the back of Sam’s neck. “Still do,” he’ll whisper, and Sam will need to fight to stand still as his brother’s fingertips slide over his hand. He’s gotten better at it over the years.

His dad wouldn’t understand. That’s what Dean tells him, anyways; Sam loves his dad, and he knows that John’s done his best after being faced with such a tragedy, but some things- some things, he just isn’t ready to know. Like how the fire really happened, or how Dean’s still around, even if Sam’s the only one who can see him. How a demon is out to get their family, and how Sam is the only one who can keep them safe.

“You need to keep Dad safe,” Dean tells him, voice all whisper-soft in the middle of the night while Sam carves protective wards into his windowpane. He’s focused with a little switchblade in his hands, breathing slow and deep to make sure he gets it right. “He doesn’t know, Sammy. He doesn’t know the truth, but- but you do. You gotta protect him, okay?” His voice breaks a little, then, and Sam’s hands still. “You can’t- you can’t lose him like we lost Mom. Okay?”

And Sam can’t hear his brother in pain like this, so he always nods. He nods and he finishes his work and he crawls into bed. He’s got leads to follow in the morning; stories about lightning storms and dead cattle that’ll take him a few towns over. John thinks he’s going to the library and it’s best for everyone if it stays that way.

When he finally settles, the backs of his eyelids are painted with eyes flooded black and scribbles of Latin. An icy brush of lips to his forehead is Dean’s way of saying goodnight, and Sam’s left in silence, wondering about monsters and demons and how to keep his family safe.

He’s the only one that Dad’s got left, and he won’t let the demon hurt them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	21. Two-Hundred Thirty-Four: Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hasn’t been sleeping much lately, for how much time he’s spent watching over his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protective!Dean and whatnot.

Dean hasn’t been sleeping much lately, for how much time he’s spent watching over his brother. Sam’s always restless these days; he’s lucky if he keeps his eyes shut for four hours without waking in a panic, and there’s no way Dean can let his little brother function that way. He needs to be there; to make sure that Sam isn’t alone when his nightmares send him straight back to the Cage.

So instead, he watches. He waits until Sam’s breathing goes even, and then he crawls into bed with him and settles at his side, laying down with his head propped up on his arm and tracing the features of his brother’s face with his eyes. He’s watch and wait and listen for the first furrow of Sam’s brow or hitch of his breath; the first sign that he’s being dragged back there all over again.

“Sammy,” he’ll say, soft ‘cause he knows he needs to be gentle here. Knows how hard it is to come back from Hell after it’s sunken its claws into your skin. “Sammy, hey, c’mon. You’re here. You’re okay.”

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut tighter, at first, until Dean starts stroking through his hair and he starts to relax. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, little brother. You’re safe.”

Sam whimpers in his sleep, sometimes, but maybe a part of him is listening. Maybe something in him knows that Dean’s right here, because he’ll curl up a little tighter in his place and tuck himself into the curve of Dean’s body, seeking out warmth and comfort. Dean will wrap his arm tight around his brother’s middle and hold him close, nose through soft hair that smells like something fresh and clean.

“I’m here,” he’ll whisper, over and over again until Sam gets it. “I’ve got you.”

He won’t let the fucking devil take his brother away from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	22. Two-Hundred Thirty-Five: Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s quiet between the two of them, a tiny moment of peace among the chaos that wages outside these four walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thing from season eleven.

It’s quiet between the two of them, a tiny moment of peace among the chaos that wages outside these four walls. Dean’s at the fridge, brow furrowed as he surveys what little is left inside. What good is living out the end of the world if there’s no beer?

“So he… he’s really gone.”

It’s Sam’s voice that has him looking up, and the almost childish quality of it that’s got him on alert. His brother’s sitting at the table, his thumb rubbing into his opposite palm where Dean had stitched him up all those years ago. He looks irrefutably small, in that moment; broad shoulders curled in while his hair falls over his face. With the empty kitchen around him, there’s something terribly lonely about the image.

Dean breathes out slow and closes the fridge.

“Yeah, kiddo. Dust in the wind.” It might even be literal- Amara hadn’t been holding back when she’d blown Lucifer to oblivion. There’s no doubt that it’s exactly what Sam’s talking about. “Ain’t gonna be causing anyone any more trouble.”

Sam stays quiet, and Dean slowly crosses the room towards him, hesitating only a moment as he comes to a stop behind his brother. Rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder and presses in gently with his fingertips. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s thumb is bloodless-white with how hard he’s working it into his hand. “It just- just feels too easy, you know?”

Dean’s free hand goes down to find Sam’s, pulling the old wound free until he can press his thumb into the spot, instead. Careful. Gentle. “He’s gone, Sammy. He-” Takes a deep breath. It’s hard to say. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Neither of them speak after that, but Dean doesn’t move. He’s got one hand on his brother’s shoulder and the other working into that old grounding point, and eventually, Sam’s head drops back to rest against his stomach, a tiny, intimate movement.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, this. Safety and peace at the end of the world. Dean grabs it by the horns and holds on tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	23. Two-Hundred Thirty-Six: Chicken Pox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the most part, when Sammy can’t stop crying, Dean’s solution is to climb up into his little fold-out crib and curl up around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft baby Weechesters.

For the most part, when Sammy can’t stop crying, Dean’s solution is to climb up into his little fold-out crib and curl up around him. Sometimes he rubs his brother’s tummy or gives him little kisses on his cheeks until he giggles, and then he’s happy and quiet and they can fall asleep together just like they are. It’s his go-to, and it’s yet to fail him, so when Sammy’s crying and squirming around in bed with tiny red bumps growing on his skin, it’s exactly what Dean does.

The bumps scare him a little, where he can see them on Sammy’s neck where his onesie doesn’t cover, but Sammy’s upset and Dean’s gotta be brave for his baby brother. He crawls in close like normal and gathers Sammy into his arms, pulling him close so they can share their heartbeats. Sammy always likes that.

“S'okay, Sammy,” he mumbles. His hand goes to Sammy’s tummy like it always does and his brother hiccups a little bit between his cries. “Gotta sleep.”

Sammy’s still distressed, and he keeps wiggling against the sheets underneath them, but eventually, he quiets down. His hands latch onto a couple of Dean’s fingers, and that must help, too, ‘cause he’s asleep after a few minutes and Dean’s left in the quiet. He takes the chance to look at the bumps a little closer, but he still doesn’t know what they are or how to fix them. Maybe he’ll tell Daddy in the morning.

Dean wakes up with matching chicken pox, but at least they get to be miserable and itchy together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	24. Two-Hundred Thirty-Seven: Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y'gotta stay still,” Sammy mumbles from somewhere behind Dean’s head, and Dean does his best to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft baby Weechesters. Again.

“Y'gotta stay still,” Sammy mumbles from somewhere behind Dean’s head, and Dean does his best to do just that. It’s warm outside today, the two of them in a grassy field in the late days of spring with holes in their jeans and dirt under their nails. They’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to be, and Sammy’s taken it upon himself to make Dean pretty this afternoon.

“Dandelions are the nicest,” he declares a moment later, and Dean can’t help but smile. Of course his little brother would fall in love with a weed. “They’re pretty an’ yellow. They match you.”

Dean’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean, but he stays still anyways and just hums a response. The stems tickle his head as they brush through his hair, and it’s another couple minutes of careful concentration from Sammy before everything’s in place.

“Flowers!” he announced, and Dean can finally move, reaching one hand up to brush his fingertips over the delicate flower crown that’s been placed on his head. “You’re all pretty now, Deanie.”

Dean smiles big and waits until Sammy comes around to take a look before reaching out and grabbing his little brother around the middle, pulling him close giggling and shrieking until he’s settled in Dean’s lap.

“Not as pretty as you’re gonna be,” Dean tells him seriously, and keeps Sammy right where he is as he reached for some nearby flowers. They’ve gotta match, and make sure both of them are good and pretty.

Momma taught him how to weave the flowers together into crowns in the first place. She was real pretty, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	25. Two-Hundred Thirty-Eight: Valntine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time is the first time that Dean really means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "a sweet prompt, dean trying to woo sam on valentine's day and sam not getting it at all :) please feel better <3"

The third time is the first time that Dean really means it. He’s used to his brother rolling his eyes when he makes his half-hearted advances for the sake of poking fun at him, but looking at Sam now makes his heart race and his throat tight and there’s a very substantial  _something_ that exists between them- something he’s yet to name but can’t get out of his head. Something that’s more like holding hands in the front seat than kissing in the rain, but it’s  _something_ , and it’s theirs, and Dean thinks- Dean thinks that they deserve a little more.

 _A little more_ , naturally, needs to happen on Valentine’s Day, and it needs to be a part of their little tradition.

He keeps it low key; there’s no time to find a werewolf hunt and in the pursuit of romance, real human hearts seem a little bit grim. It’s not hard to find an inexpensive plastic model, though- kid’s science kit or some shit like that; Sam would’ve loved it when he was little- and he springs for flowers when he spots them on the way back to the motel. Sam’d been sleeping when he left, but Dean’s sure he’ll be awake by now, hunched over his computer and looking for another case. They deserve a break, too, actually- just some time for the two of them to kick back and maybe figure out what’s become of their relationship. The silent acceptance can only go on for so long.

“Miss me?” Dean asks when he lets himself in; he’s got the bags bundled up in his arms and as expected, Sam doesn’t even glance up. He’s on the other side of the room and just hums in greeting, so Dean rolls his eyes and takes it upon himself to get the ball rolling. “I got you something.”

“Coffee?” Sam guesses, and Dean makes a face. “Doesn’t smell like coffee.”

“Not coffee.” It’s probably best to just cut to the chase, so Dean clears his throat a little and steps closer, digging out the little plastic heart, the flowers, and the least nervous grin he can muster. Here goes nothing. “Hey, Sammy- be my Valentine?”

A beat of silence while Sam’s fingers still, and then it passes and he starts typing again. “Funny. C’mon, we gotta get to work.”

Dean just stares at him for a moment, then huffs a little and steps closer. Just a couple feet between them now, with Sam’s back facing him and the laptop open on the desk. “Dude, I’m not kidding. C’mon.”

“I thought we were trying to work?”

“You’re trying to work. I’m trying to woo you.”

The words tumble out without Dean really intending to allow them to see the light of day, and it’s got Sam stopping again, except this time he stays still for a long, stretched-out moment. Eventually, he turns, eyebrows hitting his hairline when his eyes land on the flowers and heart, and Dean can’t help but think it’s been quite a while since he’s rendered his brother entirely speechless.

“Look,” Dean says when the silence stretches on too long for his comfort, “I just… I mean, it’s our thing? But I kinda wanted it to be, uh, legitimate or whatever, if we were gonna do this- this thing for real. If you wanted to.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot and glances away, pretending like his cheeks aren’t warming up. “I… sort of want to.”

Another few seconds of heavy, pregnant silence, and Dean’s just about to call it all off as a big joke when he hears the feet of the chair scraping against the floor as Sam stands. Two long steps and they’re face-to-face, Sam’s fingers curling gently around his to take the flowers, first, then more slowly, the heart. A soft little laugh and Dean finally works up the nerve to glance up again, tracing the smile on Sam’s face with his eyes.

“Our thing?” he asks. “Human hearts? C’mon, that’s gross.”

A smile breaks out on Dean’s face, and he responds with eloquence as their fingers tangle together over the little gifts. “You’re gross.”

They’re still  _brothers,_ after all. No such thing as a holiday from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	26. Two-Hundred Thirty-Nine: Magic Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now… you gotta pick a card.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weechesters.

“And now… you gotta pick a card.”

Dean nods sagely as his little brother presents him with a fanned-out deck of cards, rubbing at his chin as he makes sure to put some thought into which one he wants. Sammy’s got his whole magician getup on; a little felt top-hat, matching black cape, and even a bow-tie that brings it all together. Sure, he’s in jeans that are torn at the knees and his feet are bare against stained motel carpeting, but the concentration on his face and the surprising finesse with which he handles the deck makes it easy to pretend. “How about… this one?”

Dean pulls the two of spades from the deck and makes a show of memorizing it before he sets it back on top as directed. What follows next is an impressive display of dexterity from Sam- he shuffles fast; flips cards around in his hands under Dean’s entirely lost track of the whole thing. His brother can’t quite keep the smile off his face when he presents the reformed deck, and Dean stands up straighter, ready for the end.

“Okay, hold your hand like this,” Sam instructs, bending his first and middle fingers with the deck squeezed between them. “Not too tight, though, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean doesn’t hide his smile this time as he does as instructed, then watches as Sam’s tongue pokes out between his lips with concentration as he waves his fingers over the deck. Dean counts one, two, three with the movement of his brother’s lips before his hand comes down hard on the deck, scattering all of the cards but one. Sam grins and plucks the card free, flipping it over to show Dean.

“Was this your card?” Sam asks seriously, displaying the two of spades.

Dean can’t help the grin on his face and just gathers Sammy up into his arms, lifting him up off his feet and spinning him around. “The Spectacular Sammy,” he declares, with Sammy laughing in his arms. “The best magician ever!”

There’s nothing wrong with having a little magic in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	27. Two-Hundred Forty: Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it’s a shame my blood runs red like the rest–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry is not my forté.
> 
> Serial killer Sam and Wincesty stuff.

it’s a shame my blood runs red like the rest–  
i think you were expecting something more.  
more than crimson rivers and copper-tainted kisses;  
the more that i could never offer.  
(you deserved more than i ever had.)  
-  
the way you work, it’s only fair  
to call you an artist.  
precious baby brother creating his own mona lisa  
in fingerpaint-gore and pained screams.  
(i think i’d call you a musician, too.)  
-  
but then, you never cared about any of that.  
all you wanted was for big brother to love you the best  
and fuck, sweetheart, but i tried.  
i wanted to give you everything  
but all i had was me.  
-  
i read the stutter in your eyes when everything  
stopped.  
i knew my time had come and that your hands  
were destined for my neck.  
-  
i can only hope that my love was enough  
even if the taste of my blood   
and the red smeared across my skin  
was not.  
-  
“all things wicked start from innocence,” they said-  
and you told me that i should have listened.

_(‘cause darling, you were the purest of them all.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	28. Two-Hundred Forty-One: Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Dean wishes he could scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean angst because that's my entire way of life.

Sometimes, Dean wishes he could scream.

Not that he hasn’t done plenty of screaming in his life. Plenty of screaming in Hell, or in Cold Oak, or in any of the hundreds of stops in between. Not as if he hasn’t worn his throat raw in pain and grief and anger, but it’s.

It’s different. Sometimes.

Sometimes he wants to scream that  _it’s not fair._ Sometimes it’s  _I want them back_ or  _you can’t do this_ or  _why me? Why us?_

_Why him?_

Dean wishes he could scream and that it would change absolutely  _anything_ about this life; that screaming and kicking and throwing a fit would rescue him from this hell and give him everything he should’ve had. A home and a family and the safety of knowing that monsters are only stories. He wishes that he could do something, and sometimes his lungs tighten and his throat itches with the need to let it out.

Mostly, he just breathes and grins and pushes right past that feeling.

_“Why is is my job to save these people?_ _Why do I have to be some kind of hero?”_

Screaming has never really gotten Dean much of anywhere. It’s best to just keep his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	29. Two-Hundred Forty-Two: Cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kid ran by a cliff. After that, he was lying below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird thing from a video game quote. Uh. MCD.

_Kid ran by a cliff. After that, he was lying below._

It was just an accident. Just a stupid, horrible accident.

John doesn’t even hear Dean scream. Mostly he just remembers the boys laughing and chasing each other around; they’re in Yosemite on something that’s almost a vacation, letting the two of them get a taste of the outdoors while he follows an old wendigo trail. It’s a day trip of the park and they’re exploring the cliffs and he should have been looking. He should’ve been paying closer attention.

There aren’t enough excuses in the entire world to make up for the way little Sammy screams.

John trips per himself and nearly follows; it’s a great cliff face and it’s too dangerous for people, too fucking dangerous for kids, and Dean’s gone and John thinks he’s gonna throw up and it’s too much and Sammy won’t stop screaming and crying-

Ten years old, and Dean’s body comes back battered and broken and bruised. Sammy doesn’t say a damn word to him after it’s all said and done, and John wishes his punishment was something worse.

There’s no coming back from such a devastating mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	30. Two-Hundred Forty-Three: Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, does it … bother you at all, how easily you seem to fit in here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love. Prison!Dean. Um.

_Dean, does it … bother you at all, how easily you seem to fit in here?_

Dean grins and shrugs it off and tries not to think about the words any harder than he has to.

Of course it bothers him. Of course he’s unsettled by how easy it is to get comfortable in a place like this- a place meant for society’s outcasts; the people who’ve been locked away for breaking rules that they weren’t supposed to break. Dean’s never been much of a law-abiding citizen himself, but having it laid bare before him just how similar he really is to these people-

Maybe it’s why he goes so easy on them. He acts out and he’s silly and he does everything he can to be the sort of person they want him to be. He watches the way his brother scowls and turns away and hides in on himself from the other inmates, and it kind of hurts to know that even Sam thinks that people like him are better off dead or locked away. Don’t even deserve to be saved from a homicidal ghost.

So Dean plasters on his grin and gambles for cigarettes he won’t smoke, and he turns it into a game. He turns their little expedition into an experiment to see just how well he can fit with these people, and just how much he feels like he belongs.

_(Just how much Sammy will look down on him for letting himself relax and get comfortable in a place like this.)_

It feels like a cold, hard home away from home, and Dean decides it’s really for the best to keep that to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	31. Two-Hundred Forty-Four: Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was never really a conscious decision to start collecting things the way Sam does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from ivanprovorov: "Wincest + nostalgia?"
> 
> More platonic than Wincest, but.

It was never really a conscious decision to start collecting things the way Sam does. He’s never put a value on the material; from a very young age, he learned that he was lucky to have the clothes on his back and a roof over his head and not a whole lot else. Possessions weren’t much in the face of safety and family, and it would’ve never occurred to him, at a younger age, the sort of meaning they could hold.

Even now, it’s really not about the things themselves. They’re bits of wood and paper and metal; a dozen different components that are, at their very core, meaningless. Few are physically unique, and even fewer are, in any way, extraordinary. But- but it’s not the  _things_ that matter, and that’s really the whole point, isn’t it?

It’s just a shoebox, really; his collection is tiny and intimate and doesn’t take up very much space. It’s the one thing Sam thinks that his brother doesn’t know about him, and for now, it’s sort of nice to keep it that way. It’s his own little source of warmth to be able to have these moments, quiet and private when he closes his door and pulls the box out from under his bed to pick through the little treasures inside. He doesn’t do it often, for some distant fear of spoiling the simple of it, but these days- these days, more and more he’s needing these little reminders of the past, so he allows himself to indulge in moments of stress and fear.

The little green army man is tiny in his fingers now, his rifle eternally poised to protect Sam from some unseeable enemy. That’s always how they seemed to him;  _protective._ A dozen miniature men to keep him safe when he was scared.

_“See, Sammy? They’re all ready to win!”_

_“What’re they tryin’ to win?”  
_

_“The war. Duh.”  
_

_“Are they fighting to keep somethin’ safe?”  
_

_“…yeah. Yeah, buddy, that’s why they’re fighting.”  
_

Even though the army has shrunk down to one- a soldier who’s lost his entire unit after decades of motel rooms and thousands of miles on the road- that’s always been enough for Sam.

There aren’t enough Lego pieces to build anything the way he used to, but the single red four-by-two block has more meaning to it than any construction ever could. It’s still grease-stained, and Sam’s never had the heart to try to wipe it clean; after God knows how many years living in the Impala’s vents, it’d been the only one knocked loose when she was t-boned by a demon-driven eighteen-wheeler. Sam’s pretty sure that Dean doesn’t even know it exists; he’d been unconscious the whole time Sam held it tight like a stress ball, sharp plastic edges trying to cut into the palm of his hand for every second he thought Dean might not wake up.

_“Dean, you gotta hold on. You can’t go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again._ _”_

He still kept it, even after Dean woke up. Even after Dad- even after Dad  _didn’t._

_“You and me against the world.”  
_

There’s one thing missing from his box, these days. Something that used to sit quiet and tucked away at the bottom of his box, underneath the brochure and the wooden amulet and a half-dozen other little things he’s collected over the years. A gas-station Christmas ornament, a bundle of cheesy postcards from his brother, a bloodstained handkerchief. Each with a memory and a story and a chestful of emotions, but one thing is.

Missing.

Or, well- not so much  _missing_ as it is  _misplaced,_ but then, is it really fair to call something misplaced when it’s returned to its proper home?

“Hey, you in there?” Dean calls from the other side of the door, and Sam doesn’t panic. Carefully tucks away his things and closes the box and slips it back underneath the bed. “Got us a couple drinks, if you wanna hang out?”

“I’m here.”

Dean opens the door and peeks inside, and the light catches on the little bronze amulet that hangs around his neck. Half a decade in the wrong home, but Sam’s heart warms like it never left in the first place. “What, you jerkin’ off or something in here? C’mon, there’s an old monster movie marathon playing. Godzilla and Mothra, dude.”

And Sam smiles like he’s just been given the world on a silver platter because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to express how much he loves his brother. Instead of trying, he just shakes his head and stands, following as Dean starts to lead the way to his own bedroom. It’s always where they end up watching TV. “We both know who’s gonna win.”

“Yeah?” Dean reaches one hand back towards him without so much as turning his head,and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Sam to mirror the action and catch his brother’s fingers with his own, holding on loose and easy. “Ten bucks you’re wrong.”

They’ve seen the movie a hundred times, and they both know how it ends, but there’s always something to say for the feeling of nostalgia it leaves behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
